Christabel Dreams - Pigs
In the temple of loneliness, distraught shreds of troubled souls take the decisive step towards the declaration of their debts. There is an obligation: it is necessary to live the precision of falsehood, of the mask that guards against discourtesy. It would also be good to wear the coat that drops misunderstandings, sowing the strength needed to accept the dark sky of corrupt thoughts.
The Old Scribe had told you of a Roman trio, employed to paint the celestial face of the capital with splashes of melancholy, tidy and precise, to make us leap towards the celestial catacombs of human attitudes. It is from there that the last song comes out, which will be part of the long-awaited new album: let's hope it comes out as late as possible so that we can digest this gloomy beauty, with its procession, son of a wrong night in the eighties, the one that no one dared to record…
The piece in question is capable of bringing together a text made of molecules of sadness anointed with reasonableness and the propensity
to separate silence from the madness of human delirium, while the music plummets into the void, light as it takes the pulse away. It may be because of connections of delicate musical genres, in the temple of a Synthwave that disturbs Post-Punk to impose an enchanting melody, with its dynamite coloured grey. Because everything has to do with the vulgarity of behaviours that taste of deception: that mask, of which the old scribe spoke earlier, is only the infected diadem of a grim suspicion. Nothing saves souls, least of all in the frozen space of a need contained and maintained by a bass that corrupts by its will to bind itself to the tribal drumming, wildly obscene, to make the rhythm section a mental seizure. It sounds like New Year's Day by U2 in that piano that doesn't let go of the synth, the musical jumper, the one that warms the chest. Francesco and Emmanuele look up, turn their backs on the future and patrol sensual territories, where everything is a resource for a melody that deserves to be strung to the stars. Christian adds to the natural gift of a voice with a powerful and sensual timbre also the ability of a high register, almost shouted in the finale, to glue the shivers of this mind-twisting magnet. But, don't forget the theme, the path of the text, the denunciation, the taking of the bastille of the only truth of this modern life: to be destined to be like everyone else, with the same mask, the same burden, the same precipice. That all this is generated in the eternal city increases the discouragement, the nails scratch the dreams and one relies on the bass to meet the finished beat under one's shoes.
Certainly the keyboard would seem to ground the guitars (and the band seems to have made the correct choice): the three have sufficient resources not to disperse what must be essential. Echoes of Psychedelic Furs bring us back to tears, the ones flowing from their first album, when the saxophone (nowadays badly used by Post-Punk and Darkwave bands) is offered the task of displacing thoughts by opening the dream lane. All this becomes a perfect contradiction that makes the song functional in confusing certainties. Pigs is a latrine, a street where lights are wasted and colours are boiled in the decadent formality of a denunciation. Maturity hurts as much as truth, and the message, from a bottle, passes through relationships made of luminescence without petals of shame. The world is freezing over, like a silent failure falling into laments entrusted to that very sax. What remains? Unspoken words, capable of transforming into musical textures with solvent on the skin, to disappear in the magnificent custom of continuous listening, to make the song become a loop, like a perfect lover, to weep, to dissolve the fear given by the boundaries of the world with no more loyalty. Shivers that suspend every dream, and the singing is a weightless sad punch: the voice alone sinks the breath of listening...
One is stunned by the power, never a moment's pause, no small detail, the excellent choice of using the method of two voices in the verses, like a reverb and an echo to confirm the validity of the lyrics. In the refrain (the Roman band's highlight without a doubt since their debut), the voice seems to need no support as the bass, keyboard and drums are angels with powerful hands, albeit painted black...
The statement that disconcerts but becomes salutary is given by "We are used to falling in silence": I'm sorry to contradict the statement but with a song so immense, intense, true and raw, none of us can fail because if there is a joy, even a lopsided one, it is given by Pigs, definitively Italian Single of the Year for the Old Scribe.
And now? All that's left is for us to mute our emotions and disperse among the wandering, pulsating landmines of this Roman gem…
